


Just come and cheer

by Hypatia_66



Series: Illya in Cambridge [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Boat Race, Cambridge, Gen, Oxford, River Thames, Rowing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26836297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: gritty, greyThe things Illya lets himself in for!
Series: Illya in Cambridge [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/827022
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	Just come and cheer

**Oxford and Cambridge boat race, River Thames, 26 March 1955**

“You like rowing, don’t you, Illya? Coming up to London for the boat race?”

“I lack the build for the boat race, James.”

“We’re not asking you to take part, old son. Just to come and cheer. Go on – it’ll do you good to get away. I’ve got a friend with a car – landed gentry, you know,” said Jim, and grinned at Illya’s look of disapproval. “Forget your proletarian principles just this once. We’re going to watch the start of the race and then drive to Mortlake for the finish. There’s space in the car if you'd like to come.”

His smile of encouragement was disarming. It was a tempting invitation.

“I'd like to see it… thank you. It’s kind of you.”

<>

The Honourable Oliver’s car was an Alfa sports model, which rather challenged Illya’s proletarian principles. It naturally made good time and when they arrived at the riverside in Putney there was easy parking on one of the bomb sites. But they found the Cambridge crew sunk in gloom. The cox had gone down with a bug and was incapacitated.

“Where can we get a replacement at this late stage?” mourned the captain, speaking at large and not expecting an answer. “… Oh, greetings Oliver, hallo Jim. I’m afraid you may have had a wasted trip. We need another midget to cox the boat – any ideas?”

“Just because some of us can’t match your vast bulk, there’s no need to be rude,” Jim began. “… Wait a minute, I _have_ … He isn’t a midget but he does understand rowing … Illya!”

The crew looked round and Illya was immediately engulfed and dwarfed by the Goldie crew.

“It’s a miracle!”

“You know how to steer, don’t you?”

“Yes…”

“Ever been on the Thames?

“No…I… I…” Illya spluttered.

“Never mind – you’ll be facing the right way. Hop in, there’s a good chap. Can’t go bare-headed. Someone give him a proper cap.”

<><>

Mastering the rudder so as not to cause drag was, they said, the main thing. After explaining to the race organisers the need for a quick practice, they rowed downstream a little way. Illya successfully steered them round other boats berthed nearby and then needed to turn in good time to get into the correct position for the race, which was upstream. The crew were accomplished at this manoeuvre but the Thames is wide and fast flowing – it needed someone good on the rudder and it was a frightening test.

Slightly amused by Illya’s white face, they achieved the turn without flipping over and rowed safely back to the start.

“You’ll do,” was all they said, but in these circles that was high praise and – along with those of the organisers – Illya’s spirits lifted. All he had to fear was seasickness in the choppy waters. His churning stomach, however, was more due to fear, which proved to be an excellent prophylactic.

They rowed into position on the Middlesex station, where they would unfortunately catch more of the wind and listened for the signal, timed to start with the tidal flow, to make rowing upstream less of a struggle. The signal sounded, the race started and the two boats kept level until they passed the Harrods Furniture Depository, when the Goldie boat was leading by just a canvas.

Then Illya saw his counterpart in the Oxford boat make a wrong move just as they were approaching Hammersmith Bridge. “Now!” he shouted to his crew, “Pull!” and the Cambridge men bent their shoulders and pulled as Illya steered them into position. They shot the bridge ahead of the other boat and by Chiswick steps they had achieved a five-length lead. The Oxford crew was tiring. It was no contest and at Mortlake, Cambridge cruised to victory.

<><>

“Sixteen lengths! Light Blues for ever!”

As the Goldie crew leapt from their boat, the cheering from the crowds lining the banks was loud and enthusiastic. The defeated Isis crew sitting in their boat, slumped heads down, were spent and gasping. One had almost stopped rowing in the last third of the race.

Knowledgeable individuals on the bank took the opportunity to bore their friends with race statistics. “I make that nineteen minutes ten seconds. Hundred and first race, fifty-fifth win. Ten up on Oxford. Only second-best margin, though. The best was a win by twenty lengths in 1900 – my father was there – always talks about it…”

Only half-listening to this unfortunately inherited trait, was one undergraduate who had been dragooned by a current boyfriend into attending this chilly event. She now took her own opportunity to annoy by asking the pedant a novice’s question, “Why are the boats called Isis and Goldie?”

“Deirdre dear,” he said, his chest swelling with a mixture of outrage and pomposity, “Isis is what the Thames in Oxford is called, and Goldie is after a famous Cambridge Boat Club president from 1870 to 1872, John of that Ilk.”

Deirdre merely nodded, quite uninterested. She was watching the crew celebrating below. They were all huge: even larger than the Oxford crew in physique, except for the tow-headed cox who, like all coxes, looked like a small boy beside them – it was a necessary requirement of the job. Someone had wrapped a blanket round him – it was a cool grey day and he had got very cold sitting still in the boat, not that he displayed evidence of distress. Blue lips apart, he looked as pleased as the others surrounding him.

“Who is the little chap?” Deirdre now asked.

“The cox, dear. He’s a last-minute replacement – don’t know his name.”

“You’re slipping,” she commented.

<><>

“Well done, all,” said the captain. He looked at Illya, “Forgotten your name, old man, but spotting the chance, just when you did, and steering us into the lead, that was damn’ good work, showed real grit.”

“My name is Kuryakin,” said Illya, a little baffled. “Was my steering so gritty?”

There was laughter and Jim clapped him on the back. “Definitely. So you’ll need the beer we're getting you.”

“Is there food too?” said Illya, casting an appraising eye over his large shipmates.

“Do you like fish and chips with mushy peas?”

“Very much. But no vinegar or ketchup, please.”

**Author's Note:**

> Based on descriptions of the race. With apologies to the real crew, and especially to the cox of the Cambridge boat in 1955, one G.T. Harris of Jesus College, who wasn’t taken ill.
> 
> Strictly speaking, young Englishmen in the 1950s and early 60s almost invariably called each other just by their surnames - rarely by their first names. I'm assuming they were all old friends...


End file.
